


Sleazy

by crownlessliestheking



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Hiatus, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, NSFW, Oral Sex, Playboy Thranduil, handjobs, lots of partying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3684141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bard is too busy staring to even offer some form of retaliation; those eyes are piercing, the hair, god, that shade of white-blonde is absolutely stunning, and those pants cling to his long legs almost sinfully. It’s not fair for anyone to be that gorgeous, his brain supplies unhelpfully. Nowhere near fair."<br/>He's captivated. Luckily, so is Thranduil.</p><p>[On Hiatus, probably indefinite]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 5 pages, holy crap. Didn't see this being so long, and I just wanted to have it out. I'll come back and fix the ending tomorrow if I can, but uh, enjoy the new product of my odd mind. Inspired by Ke$ha's Sleazy.

The warehouse, abandoned by daylight, practically thrummed with energy tonight; it was a roofless, cavity of a building, now lit up by flashing lights of all colors, the beams churning together as the sound of the rave rolled over the surrounding area like a tsunami. Thranduil grinned wide at his reflection in a car window, his eyes bright and pupils already blown wide and platinum blonde hair, a point of pride for him, gleaming almost like starlight-or so he thought to himself appreciatively.

There’s a bounce in his step as he walks into the building, the bass vibrating and settling deep in his bones, making his toes curl in anticipation. He’d gotten Tauriel’s text less than an hour ago, commanding more than telling him to come to a rave at the warehouse; normally, he wouldn’t have allowed her to boss him around like that, but Thranduil thinks that he can forgive it just this once.

He flashes a dazzling smile, gliding into the crowd and glancing around for Tauriel, his eyes sliding over the others as he searched for the distinctive blaze of red hair, now cropped short but no less vibrant. The crowd parts before him, murmurs and shocked, appreciative glances rumbling just beneath the music; Thranduil looks damn good and he knows it, reveling in the attention-he doesn’t mind the stares, he’s used to them by now, used to others’ awe, and some days he’s half as in love with himself as they are enamored by his beauty.

“Where can I get a drink around here?” he leans in close to whisper into someone’s ear breathily, and he can practically _feel_ their heart stutter as a flush creeps its way onto their cheeks. He pulls back, licking his lips as he waits for an answer, curving them into a polished-perfect smirk.

“The bar’s over there,” the girl responds with a lax gesture of her hand to the right, her eyes widened in awe and her jaw slack, the cocktail of vaguely legal and possibly highly illegal substances coursing through her veins doing nothing to help coherency.

“Thanks, love,” he winks, just to see that delicious blush once more-really, he can never tire of watching people’s reactions to him. Thranduil slips back into the crowd, disappearing from her line of sight entirely even though his hair catches the light brilliantly, and ever-so-slowly making his way over to the bar.

The people are loud, the music is louder, and the bar doesn’t have wine, much to his disappointment (the only thing better than being drunk at a party is doing so with class), but that’s okay, he wants something stronger tonight, wants to lose himself in the sheer energy of the place, and a little liquor never hurt with that.

A familiar strain of music blasts out from the speakers and amps rigged up on a makeshift stage, and newly-filled, soon to be newly-empty red cup in his hand, he starts making his way to the main dance area, hips and feet already moving in time with the beat. He bumps into several people on the way to the center, the mesh of bodies growing thicker, hotter, pulsating; hips grind against his own, chests are pressed against him, hands trail through his hair. Thranduil downs the rest of his drink, relishing the delicious burn in his throat and carelessly tossing the cup to the floor, leaving it to its crumpled fate as he continues to dance on, his movements fluid. The throng around him fills the space he leaves, pulls away when he pushes back; his every move is echoed, rippling through the dancers.

He loses himself in the music, the dancing, not caring that sweat is gathering at his temples and the nape of his neck, that his hair is tousled and his cheeks flushed, that his limbs are growing sore and they’ve been god knows where, touching god knows who. He hasn’t found Tauriel, but he knows that she’s bound to find him soon enough, so he remains where he is, the beating heart of the dancing crowd.

!~!~!

 “Holy shit,” Bard mutters, nearly dropping his drink. Someone new just walked in like they owned the place, arrogance oozing from their very being, though Bard would admit that he wore it well. Amazing, in fact. Tauriel giggles madly, her drunk laughter somehow still beautiful, sounding like bells over a rushing river.

“That’s Thraaaanduil,” she slurs slightly, though her voice is still irritatingly teasing. “He’s an old friend of mine, I invited him.”

“Thorin most likely won’t be too fond of that,” suddenly, Bilbo’s at his shoulder, looking at Bard with an open, knowing grin, his too-big sweater rumpled but his gaze clear, since he never drank anything stronger than tea. Bard is too busy staring to even offer some form of retaliation; those eyes are piercing, the _hair_ , god, that shade of white-blonde is absolutely stunning, and those pants cling to his long legs almost sinfully. It’s not fair for anyone to be that gorgeous, his brain supplies unhelpfully. Nowhere near fair.

“Do they…not get along?” Bard struggles to find the words, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth-he’s beginning to regret all his drinks, though he’s not yet slurring his words.

“Bad blood between the two of them,” Bilbo shrugs, his lips turning down into a frown, the lines on his cheeks deepening and his eyebrows rising to form a careless, yet puzzled expression.

“Very bad bood. Blood,” Tauriel says solemnly, stumbling over the words, though she does manage to correct herself. She runs a hand through her hair, a brilliant red that she cut short recently, and scans the crowd with bright viridian eyes. “Bilbo, you sheen Kil..Kee…Kíli?’

“Oh, um.” Bilbo pauses, screwing his eyes shut as he thinks for a moment. “He was tending the bar, last I saw, if that helps?”

She grins at him, nodding happily and grabbing Bard’s hand tugging him off his rather comfortable seat on an overturned crate on the second level of the warehouse. “C’mon, we’re goin’ there.”

 Bard lets out a wordless groan of protest-he’s still just sober enough to recognize that he does _not_ want to go down stairs, and most certainly doesn’t have the coordination to do so. Tauriel, ever determined, shoots him a glare and pulls harder on his hand, causing him to stumble ungracefully forwards, almost careening into Bilbo.

“’M sorry, she’s fuckin’ crazy,” he apologizes, and the smaller man waves it off, taking his former seat and sipping his own cup-full of water, if Bard knows his friend.

“Am NOT,” Tauriel defends herself loudly as she pulls him down the stairs, though she’s gracious enough to go slowly, something Bard is extremely thankful for as they manage to stumble down the last rickety iron step.

“Maybe a li’,” he shrugs as they wade through the crowd, ignoring the bodies brushing up against their own, a little too close for Bard’s comfort. This sort of party isn’t his thing, and he couldn’t get drunk enough to truly enjoy it like those dancing, with expressions of pure ecstasy; he is here because Tauriel and Bilbo both asked him to be, and because he’s sort of friends with Thorin, though he is nowhere to be seen.

“TAURIEL!” Kíli shouts, waving to his girlfriend of…was it a year? Six months? Bard isn’t sure, though he knows that it’s been a while, and he still can’t stop the small twinge of jealousy that rears its head whenever he looks at the sheer love they hold for each other. He’s not jealous of Kíli; Tauriel is simply a very good friend-no, Bard envies the fact that they seem completely made for one another, that they fit together seamlessly, with a spark that looks as if it will burn eternal.

“KÍLI!” she yells back, leaning forward to give him a long kiss. Bard nods in greeting to Kíli’s blonde shadow, his brother Fíli, who looks as uncomfortable with the PDA as Bard feels.

“Refill?” he asks, fiddling with a bead braided into his hair.

“Please. Rum and coke?” he asks, leaning against the makeshift countertop. Fíli nods, mixing the drink expertly and sliding it over to him. Bard grins his thanks, reaching for it-only to have it vanish from right before him, taken up by a hand with slim fingers, one of them host to a rather ornate jade-and-silver ring.

“Rude,” Fíli mutters, but mixes Bard another drink, making sure to hand it directly to him this time.

“That was mine,” Bard scowls into his new drink, tossing it back.

“Mm, well you’ve got another now, so I’d say all is forgiven, no?”

Then Bard looks up, a retort ready on his tongue. A retort that withers as soon as he sees exactly who he’s talking to.

!~!~!~!

Thranduil places the now-empty cup on the countertop (shoddy worksmanship, he thinks to himself, though it can’t really be helped), and turns to check that all, indeed, is forgiven-it wouldn’t do to get into a fight in his condition. And then sucks in a breath.

The man leaning on the countertop is looking at him with his mouth slightly open, and eyes wide-full of shock and adoration, an intense brown gaze raking over him hungrily. He’s dressed simply, in a dark charcoal grey wife-beater shirt that clings to what is clearly a well-developed frame, and black jeans that fit over legs that seem to go on forever. His hair is pulled back into what can only be a makeshift bun, though some strands still hang loose around his face, framing a strong jawline shadowed with stubble, and deep set eyes in a long face with a defined nose; not a classical beauty in any sense, yet still striking.

“Forgiven indeed,” he rasps out, his voice pleasantly deep. “I don’t take kindly to strangers stealing my drink.”

“I can buy you another, if it means that much to you.” This, this is familiar territory for him, and Thranduil takes comfort in the welcome rhythm that he is ready to fall into.

“Drinks are free here, but I’m sure Fíli would take your money if you’re eager to give it away,” the man offers a lazy smirk, and the bartender lets out a harsh laugh, his face carefully schooled into an expression of indifference. He looks familiar, the name sounds familiar, though Thranduil can’t quite place it yet.

“Perhaps another time, then,” he purrs with a slow smile, casting the matter from his mind.

“I can’t turn down a free drink,” the other shrugs, tucking one of those stray strands behind his ear in a practices gesture.

“Most don’t.”

“I’m Bard, by the way,” he extends a hand, strong, a little calloused, Thranduil notes, grasping it firmly and giving it a quick shake. Bard’s hand is warm, a little larger than his own, and Thranduil thinks it’s the alcohol talking, but he swears he feels a delicious thrill of electricity run through him as they touch.

“Thranduil,” he replies, reluctantly pulling his hand back.

An audible shattering of glass interrupts whatever Bard was going to say next, and Thranduil turns in irritation to regard the bartender, who stares right back, his eyes shocked and his lips turned down into a snarl.

“Fíli?” comes a new voice, a disgustingly familiar rumble, and Thranduil feels his own face turn down into a frown as he whirls to face its owner. Thorin Durinson.

Things just got a lot more complicated.

!~!~!~!

Bard feels the moment break with the glass Fíli dropped, Tauriel and Kíli quieting next to him, wearing identical expressions of ‘oh shit’.  Thranduil himself, god but the name just flows off his tongue, is staring at Thorin with an expression akin to snarl on his face.

“Look what the trash dragged in,” Thorin grits out, his dark eyebrows lowering into his impressive glower, made more intense by his ultramarine eyes.

“Trash only gets dragged into a dumpster,” Thranduil spits back, his grey eyes flashing dangerously as a sneer makes its way onto his face, distorting beautiful features in condescension. He wears that well, too.

“Best go find one, then,” Thorin crosses his arms, jutting his chin out.

“I was invited, thank you very much,” Thranduil smirks and sits on a nearby stool as if it were a throne, crossing his legs and looking very much at ease.

“I. Don’t. Care.”

“You can’t make me leave,” he continues, taking a long, slow sip of Bard’s drink-a habit that he really does need to stop, Bard frowns, but lets him have the drink for now.

“Do you want to bet on that?” Thorin’s voice is dangerously soft, anger rolling off of him in waves. Bad blood, Bard recalls Tauriel’s words almost hysterically.

“I’ve beaten you before, _Oakenshield_ ,” he sneers the old nickname, and that’s all it takes for Thorin to launch himself at the other, knocking him clean off the barstool. He punches Thranduil clean in the face, and Bard almost trips over his own feet in his haste to pull Thorin off the other-luckily, Nori, Bilbo, and Bofur are already there, Bofur and Nori restraining Thorin while Bilbo places a soothing hand on his chest, his expression soft and calming, though Bard knows not to be fooled-under that face lies a spine of steel. 

Tauriel has a restraining hand on Thranduil’s shoulder, though she moves it when Bard manages to get there, making the quick, universal gesture of ‘get him the fuck out of here’. He glances down at Thranduil’s face and –what the hell, how can he look so _sexy_ with blood running down a split and puffy lip twisted into a feral snarl, and rage burning bright in his eyes? Completely unfair, he sighs to himself as he hauls the other to his feet, dragging him out of the warehouse, the crowd parting before them once more. 

Thorin’s temper is legendary, and he’s not seen anyone other than Bilbo, and possibly Dwalin, get away with outright provoking the man. And none of them pushed his buttons like Thranduil did.

They stumble outside, Thranduil trembling with anger as he stalks forward, and Bard lets him lead them on, head spinning. He's not even entirely sure where they're going, though he tries to keep track of the turns Thranduil makes as best he can; it wouldn't do to get lost, not at all, and these docks are practically a labyrinth of darkness in the night, with only the occasional flicker of a streetlight in the distance, or the harsh light of a loading car, to break it. 

"So," he starts off, awkwardly breaking the silence. The chill night air, mordant and weighted with brine, is doing wonders to sober him up. "You cooled off yet?"

"That," Thranduil sniffs haughtily, the fire of his anger now cooled to embers, "implies I'd lost my temper to begin with."

"If getting punched in the face didn't provoke you, then I'd say you don't have a temper," Bard raised an eyebrow, smirking a little at the scowl offered in return.

"Yes, well. I'm still bleeding," he winces as he dabs at his lip, the skin around it bright red and promising an impressive bruise come morning. Bard has to tamp down the sudden urge to kiss it better, lick the blood off the other's lip. 

"Here," he pulls a crumpled napkin from his pocket-who knows how long that's been in there?-and hands it to Thranduil, not missing the brief flash of disgust on the other's face. "Don't give me that look, now's no time to be a snob about things."

No answer.

Bard just sighs, stepping forward to gently wipe the blood away. Thranduil makes no move to step away; rather, he leans into the touch, and Bard is not staring at his lips, no not at all. And he certainly isn't thinking about kissing the other man senseless, or wondering what his lips would feel like. He's not nearly sober enough for this, he groaned internally, his movements slowing to a halt, the blood all but gone. 

Thranduil's eyes flicker to his own, blue-grey-green flashing. 

Inexplicably, Bard leans closer. 

And then the world shatters around them as they kiss, the bloodstained napkin falling to the ground, a shock of white in the shadows of the dock. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They do the do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's my first smut...nearly 7 pages and over 2,000 words. Unbetaed. My disclaimer is this: I am a 16 year old asexual female and have absolutely nothing to base this on but my own reading, so if you find issues with it please point them out so I can fix them and become a better smut writer in general. Because the NSFW stuff isn't something I can avoid with this story, and I want to make sure it's of a good quality.

Later on, Bard will wonder how they even managed to make it back to his apartment (it was closer than Thranduil's place, Bard assumes, but he's never been, doesn't even know where the man lives). 

They kiss deeply, all aggression and teeth clacking against one another, hard, tongues thrusting into mouths and slicking against each other-there is nothing remotely romantic or dignified about this sort of kiss, but Bard loves every moment of it. Thranduil’s mouth is soft, sinful, demanding, and Bard thinks through a haze of lust and alcohol that he could get lost in it, that he wouldn’t mind being devoured if this were the mouth that consumed him.

It’s Thranduil who breaks the kiss (much to Bard’s dismay), pulling away sharply. The night air is a blast of cold against Bard’s lips, and he immediately misses the scorching soft heat that had been pressed against them.

“Where do you live?” Thranduil’s voice is near a growl, and Bard’s jeans tighten even more because _god that sound is so hot_.

“Not far from here,” he manages to respond, impatience and confusion coloring his voice. Bard wants to take him home, so badly, and Tauriel knows him so he can’t be _that_ bad and-

Well, the decision had been made since the moment he’d seen Thranduil.

“Five minutes,” Bard whispers breathily into the other’s ear, biting down on the shell a roughly, smirking at the strangled moan that catches in Thranduil’s throat. Something to investigate later.

“What are you waiting for?” Thranduil presses flush against him, teasingly grinding into his crotch.

Bard lets out a muttered curse, forcing himself to pull away. His willpower is whittled thin, carved down to the point of breaking at the slightest temptation-and Thranduil is still oozing confidence, sin and temptation made into a human form with a devilish smirk and cold, glinting eyes, and platinum hair.

“This way,” he says in way of a response, smoothing his voice over, though it still sounds husky and rich with desire to his ears. Bard has never been one to hide what he feels, and this is no exception.

“Lead on,” Thranduil fucking _purrs_ , and Bard is harder than he ever thought possible from just kissing, and it’s all he can do to put one foot in front of the other, and focus on anything but the throbbing member in his pants and the man he’s taking home.

!~!~!~!

The walk to Bard’s apartment flashes by in a daze of heated kisses and arousal, stumbling over the uneven sidewalk and right into another kiss. Thranduil already loves how Bard fits against his chest as if he were meant to be there, hard muscle molded perfectly against him-and, of course, the hard bump in his jeans that Thranduil can’t wait to uncover.

It’s not as if he’s any better; he’s so incredibly turned on right now he’s sure that there’s a matching tent in his straining pants. More so than ever before-sure, he’s kissed people, fucked men and women and been fucked by them, but this is somehow different. Thranduil feels the chemistry, the electricity, crackle in the air around them as Bard fumbles with the key to his apartment door-an old thing that creaks loudly, a burglar alarm in and of itself.

“It’s ah, not much, but it’s home,” Bard mumbles, motioning for Thranduil to enter.

He doesn’t respond, abandoning words in favor of shoving Bard against the wall-the lights are still off, and through the open window, moonlight bathes his hair in a silver halo-and pinning his hands above his head.

“Enough talking,” he punctuates his words with a roll of his hips, pressing their arousals together, and Thranduil swears a spark ignites between them, even though they’re both wearing uncomfortably tight jeans. The sound Bard makes is absolutely sinful, his cheeks flushed and kiss-swollen lips parting to let out a low, rumbling groan that goes straight to his cock.

“Bedroom’s that way,” Bard gasps out, his voice hoarse and utterly wrecked.

“Mm, not yet,” Thranduil smirks, enjoying the way his blush spreads and his eyes widen. “We’ve got to have some fun, first, before we get to the serious parts.”

He reaches down to tug at Bard’s belt, relishing the feeling of smooth-worn leather against his fingers as he pulls it off and tosses it to the side-it lands with a clatter somewhere on the floor, but Thranduil is too busy working at the stubborn button and zipper to care.

Damn the lack of light, he curses to himself, normally nimble fingers tripping over one another, his frustration mounting until _finally_ it comes loose, and his and boxers are pushed down by two eager sets of hands.

Thranduil takes a moment to observe Bard’s cock, his eyes trailing down it from tip to the slight curve of the length, to the patch of dark hair tufting at its base. He smirks, pressing his lips to the tip and glancing up at Bard, whose expression is almost stricken, his lips parted in a silent plea for more, his pupils blown wide open.

Delicious.

His smirk widens as he parts his lips, licking a circle around the tip-Bard is all musk and salt and something spicy, and Thranduil is immediately addicted. He drags his gaze down a still-shirt-clad torso, his hands sliding up Bard’s thighs for support as he laves his tongue down the underside to press a chaste kiss to the base, licking his way right back up.

Bard’s low, throaty groan as he grazes his teeth down the sides makes his own pants tighten, and he repeats the action, just to hear that noise again. The other doesn’t seem particularly vocal, though Thranduil is determined to elicit all the moans he possibly can.

He returns to the tip, capturing it between his lips and sucking hard; Bard’s length is like steel wrapped in molten silk inside him, and he flicks his tongue along the underside as he takes more and more into his mouth. Bard lets out a real moan this time, and Thranduil chances a glance up, his eyes widening at the sight.

Bard’s cheeks are brightly flushed and his mouth opened in a ‘o’ of desire, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Thranduil is faced with the inexplicable desire to have them pulling at his hair. He gives a particularly hard suck, hollowing his cheeks out and relaxing his throat as he breathes in deeply, taking Bard’s entire erection into his mouth, his lips stretched almost obscenely at the base, his nose nudging the thatch of hair just above his member.

With a gentleness that belies the action, Bard’s hands come to cradle his cheeks before sliding into his hair. Thranduil groans in the back of his throat as callused fingers brush against the sensitive tips of his ears, the vibration causing the hands in his hair to tighten, and the cock in his mouth to twitch.

Bard starts moving his hips in shallow thrusts, his head thrown back in ecstasy, tendrils of dark hair drenched in sweat and clinging to his face. Thranduil relaxes his jaw obligingly, dragging his tongue along the sides, hollowing his cheeks with the hard, fast rhythm the other sets.

It’s undeniably hot, having his mouth fucked, and Thranduil takes the chance to undo his own pants, pull out his aching length that’s practically dying for attention. His fingers drift across it lightly before grasping it, his low moan turning to a throaty hum that sends a pulse through the erection in his mouth.

“N-no,” Bard rasps out, his thrusts turning erratic. Thranduil blinks, stilling in his confusion. “Don’t do-ahhh, that.”

He just barely grazes his teeth along the underside, and that’s all it takes to send the other spiraling over the edge, hot semen spurting into his throat as Bard cants his hips as far as they can go into the wet heat of Thranduil’s mouth, the tension draining out of his body, his face slacking in bliss as a sinful groan makes its way from his lips.

God, the sounds he makes.

!~!~!~!

Bard is nearly boneless, completely lost in bliss, and the soft lips distended around his cock. His hands are shaking from where they’ve knotted themselves in Thranduil’s silken hair, and he focuses on slowly untangling them, making sure to brush against the points of Thranduil’s ears as he does so.

Thranduil sits back on his heels, his softening length sliding out of his mouth with an obscene pop, and he _licks his fucking lips_. Bard nearly groans out loud at the sight, the other straightening in a fluid motion, his rather magnificent erection jutting from his hips.

“Where’s the bed?” he asks, unbelievably calm.

“This way,” Bard responds, his throat dry as he gestures to the open door of his bedroom.

“Well come on then,” Thranduil’s voice is strained as he starts walking there, peeling off those sinfully tight jeans as he goes. “Just because _you’re_ done doesn’t mean we’re through for the night. _I’ve_ still got a few orgasms in me. And they’re dying for you to draw them out.” He smirks, his eyes flashing quicksilver in the dim light.

“Right,” Bard finds his reply to be woefully inadequate, though his cock gives a slightly interested twitch at the thought of other activities.

He follows Thranduil to the bedroom, flinching at the cool night air that permeates it-he’d left the window open again, something Tauriel always berated him for when she was over. The sounds of the city had always helped him sleep, though, and they filled the apartment even now, the soft purr of car engines like some great, sleeping cat, the muted whisper of breeze scattering papers and litter.

Thranduil’s face softens at the sounds, his eyes drifting shut and allowing Bard to gape shamelessly at the long, long legs he can just _picture_ wrapped around his hips, the hair that flows down the curve of his spine like a platinum waterfall, the defined but not bulging muscles that adorn and sculpt the other’s lean body. Beautiful, Bard thinks to himself, drinking in the sight. Utterly entrancing. With the moonlight dappling in from the window, he seems ethereal, like a Fae King visiting for the night, immortal and unreachable.

He’s torn from his wandering thoughts by a warm body pressed against his own, hungry lips drawing him into another searing, demanding kiss. Bard can taste himself on the other’s tongue, something he’d never thought he would enjoy, but finds unmistakably hot. He grinds his hips against Thranduil’s erection without care, swallowing the short, staccato gasps that the motions elicit from the blonde.

“Bed,” he murmurs huskily into Thranduil’s ear, biting the tip once more, and once more reveling in the throaty groan the action produces. Bard yanks open the drawer in his bedside table, rummaging around with clumsy, eager fingers until he finds what he’s looking for-a small bottle, half empty, and a box of condoms.

When he looks up, his mouth goes dry. Thranduil is laid out on his bed, languidly stroking his cock with long, slow gestures, his legs spread, his back arched in bliss, his lips slightly parted. Bard nearly drops the lube as he rushes to the bed, kneeling between the other’s legs and glancing at him with a questioning look.

“Can I…?” he trails off, desperate for the answer to be a resounding yes.

Thranduil nearly growls, a wild look entering his eyes as he rolls his hips again.

“God, yes.”

Bard drizzles some of the lube onto his index finger, rubbing it against his thumb to warm the cold liquid.

“Now, dammit,” Thranduil glares at him, his hair a silvered mess of a halo sticking to his forehead.

“Patience,” Bard can’t help but tease him as he slides the finger in slowly, rotating it for a better stretch. He smirks at the audible gasp that jolts through Thranduil’s body, even as he continues to push it in and out, always stretching just a little bit further each time.

“More,” Thranduil gasps from between gritted teeth. Bard subsides, stilling completely to lube up another finger before sliding it in alongside the first, slowly scissoring them inside Thranduil’s tight heat-and Bard’s length is already starting to harden again, from the sensation of just his fingers being inside the other, and from the practically sinful noises he’s making.

And then Bard finds it.

Thranduil lets out a low, keening _wail_ , bucking his hips and grinding down on Bard’s fingers, which keep a constant pressure on his prostate, even as a third finger joins its brothers, stretching him thoroughly as his pants punctuate the silence between them.

“’M ready,” Thranduil moans out, clenching around his fingers as if to prove his point. Bard nearly groans. “Fuck me, now, Bard.”

It’s the way that he says Bard’s name that really does the trick, a breathy groan that somehow ends in a demanding snarl, all in the lilting baritone whose moans have been ringing off the walls.

“Yeah, hold on,” Bard mutters, his hands shaking as he rolls a condom onto his cock-achingly hard, now-and slicks it up, biting his lip as he lines up with Thranduil’s entrance, the head just resting on the ring of tight muscle.

“Now, Bard,” he repeats, narrowing his eyes and rolling his hips down, effectively impaling himself on Bard’s erection. Bard’s own words are lost in a noise of pure pleasure, his jaw dropping open, his eyes nearly rolling back in his skull with bliss. Thranduil fits around him perfectly, so hot and tight that Bard feels he’ll come undone with only the slightest of movements.

He forces himself to be still, until Thranduil insistently pushes down with his hips, and Bard begins to thrust shallowly, almost hesitantly rocking his hips as he tries to find that spot again-and find it he does, if Thranduil’s wordless cry and arched back are anything to go by.

“Fuuuck yes,” the words fall from his mouth, and he tightens around Bard, who continues to thrust at that spot mercilessly, watching Thranduil fall apart on the bed beneath him.

Bard grunts, bracing himself on the palm of his left hand as he increases the pace-he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll last, but he’ll be damned if he climaxes again before Thranduil. Though the other looks far gone, so close to tipping over that blissful edge, Bard reaches down, giving his cock a few erratic tugs, rough but in sync with the rhythm of his length rubbing against Thranduil’s prostate.

“Let go,” he half-groans, his words heavy on his tongue as he leans down to graze his teeth against that sweet spot on the other’s ear.

And Thranduil does, coming undone with a toe-curling groan, semen spurting from his cock in long ropes, spattering their stomachs and the dark sheet below them. Bard pants, stroking him through his orgasm as he thrusts away, so close to his own peak-and when Thranduil clenches around him one last time, that’s all it takes; he goes tumbling off, his spine stiffening in ecstasy as he pumps himself empty inside Thranduil before collapsing onto his side on the bed.

Thranduil’s face is flushed, his eyes half-lidded and the hunger dancing beneath them utterly sated.

“Fuck,” he whispers, an indolent smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Incredible,” Bard breathes, mostly to himself, exhaustion settling deep within his bones.

“Mmm,” Thranduil agrees, drowsy and wordless. “That it was.”

Those are the last words Bard remembers before he drifts off to sleep.

                                                                                     


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet again, awkwardness ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a...really, really long time. And for that, I apologize. Life has gotten in the way, as has writer's block. I've actually had the first half of this written for a while now, though the second bit I really needed to work on. Channel my inner Thranduil?  
> Thranduil actually reminds me of one of my close friends, so I guess talking to him spurred something and helped me get this piece o' crap out.   
> Enjoy, as always.
> 
> ~K

The next time Bard sees Thranduil, it’s almost a month later-a month with only the memory of mind-blowing sex and moonlight hair to sustain him, and only the assurance that yes, Tauriel and Bilbo and Thorin had seen him too, to prove that Thranduil wasn’t a delusion cooked up by is drunken mind.

Thorin’s magnificent black eye was the final piece of evidence pointing towards it being a reality.

“I’ve not been brooding,” he explains to Tauriel for what feels like the hundredth time, even as the ginger simply nods with the same ridiculous, knowing smile. “You know, from the way you’ve been acting, it sounds like I’ve half-fucking-fallen in love with the guy.”

Which is absolutely ridiculous, by the way. Bard swears by his belief that sex does not-cannot-equal love, and he’s not about to have that challenged by some relatively unknown but admittedly hot man.

“Well, you certainly fell in lust with him,” she remarks casually, tucking a flyaway strand of her now-shortened hair behind an ear. She got it cut in a split-second drunken decision, though Bard notices that it suits her quite well, better than her long hair. If he’d helped the process along by chopping off an uneven four inches, he won’t tell her-it’s better for his safety that way. “Though it’s not difficult to see why.”

“Well-,” he starts, ready to defend himself, Tauriel taking an even sip of her peppermint hot cocoa-why she always orders it, he has no idea, especially since it’s still almost intolerably warm out, despite it being near the end of September. The fall weather that Bard adores has yet to come in, summer’s claws gripping tight to the air and the trees whose leaves stubbornly refuse to bronze over and turn the wind to flame.

“Don’t ‘well’ me, Bard,” she narrows her eyes, and he subsides almost immediately. Bard has long learned to pick his battles, and when she uses that tone of voice, he knows that this is not one he will win. “You forget that I know Thranduil, we’ve been friends for nearly six years now, met just at the start of high school.”

“I don’t see what your days of rebellious nonconformity have to do with any of this,” Bard raises an eyebrow, taking a bite out of his cookie, double chocolate chip, decadent in a way that melts in his mouth and leaves him craving more.

“I’m getting to that, if you’d let me say more than a sentence at a time,” she replies, waspishly, before continuing, her expression smoothing over like water rushing over stone. “We’ve been friends for a long time, and he doesn’t usually run that sort of scene. I always tell him when there’s a party, and he’ll always say he’ll be there, but this was the one time he actually showed up, you understand?”

“Not particularly,” Bard sighs, exhausted by her maudlin. He has no desire to bring up the man, dredge up the memories of that wonderful, blurred night, and the truly horrific morning that followed: waking up to a cold bed, without even a note or a number, and with a hangover that he’d been sure would be the death of him, and a lingering scent of booze and expensive, delicious cologne.

“Maybe I’m not saying it properly, then,” Tauriel takes a contemplative sip of her cocoa, steam clouding her reading glasses. Bard waits patiently for her, he knows that she’ll find the words, even if it takes a few seconds to gather her thoughts.

“Right. So normally he doesn’t show up to that kind of thing-clubs are more of what he does, because nobody knows him there, and he can get in and out and keep people quiet and do what he wants,” she resumes, drumming her fingers against the old wood of their table.

“Then why go to Thorin’s? What with the bad blood and such?” Bard asks, because really, it makes absolutely no sense to him. Then again, the fact that he has spent so much energy worrying over every detail of a one-night stand; Bard would like to think that it is because he’s never been left before, he’s always the one doing the leaving. That, at least, sounds better than Tauriel’s theory of his infatuation.

“He…may not have been in the best place then,” she says, slower this time, rolling each word over her tongue, carefully considering every facet of its meaning. “He doesn’t tell me about his…exploits, not all of them, which is fine since I don’t really need to know the nitty gritty of what he’s been doing, just that he’s safe while doing it. Yeah, so I don’t know enough of that sort of thing to tell you if he was okay or not, but personally, I think that the fact he showed up to Thorin’s at all shows that there was something wrong there, though I couldn’t tell you what.”

Bard considers her spiel for a few seconds, cycling her words back in his mind.

“Okay…but from what you say, he sounds like the regular party-hard type, so it’s sort of expected that he’d just leave,” Bard shrugs. He’s still not entirely sure of the relevance of Tauriel’s little speech, if he’s completely honest-he’d rather pretend the entire night never happened.

He can convince himself that the spark he felt was nothing but alcohol firing through his neurons. He can convince himself that it was a one-time thing, that it meant nothing, even though something is telling him otherwise. He can convince himself so easily, has lied to himself about so many other things-why should this one be any different?

“Well, you can always ask him,” Tauriel says in that horrifically smug way of hers, taking a hearty swig of her hot chocolate that does nothing to hide her wide smirk as she gestures to the door.

“I’m going to kill you, one day,” he threatens, though she knows it’s empty, and he’s too busy staring at the newcomer to care.

“Of course you are.”

!~!~!~!

Thranduil glances around the coffee shop, his lip curled downwards in slight disdain-why Tauriel simply could not come over to his house if she needed to talk so badly, he’d never know. It’s too hot outside, and hot in here, too, with the pleasant crush of bodies and the warm, wafting scent of coffee that permeates the atmosphere of the place.

Thranduil hates coffee.

He pulls out his phone just in time to for it to vibrate almost ominously, a text flashing across the screen.

_We’re at the corner table, to your right._

He scowls, the back of his neck prickling-someone is watching him, more intently than others. He’s used to the stares he attracts, revels in them, if he’s to be completely honest, but rarely do they go as deep as this.

When he turns his head, dragging his eyes to the corner table, sequestered near a window and cluttered with a plate of scones, two mugs, and a copious amount of paper, he understands why.

Ebony eyes meet his own, the stare faltering in confusion, before a strong chin and defined jawline he _definitely_ remembers nibbling on juts out in a challenge. Bard.

He is going to kill Tauriel.

“Thrandy!” she calls out, loud and effervescent as ever, immune to the disapproving looks she gets from the elderly couple sitting just next to her. He musters up his iciest smile, a bare curve to his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he walks over to the table, an empty chair waiting for him.

Bard continues to stare at him, a pink tongue darting out to lick at his lips-Thranduil recalls them being slightly chapped-though he remains silent. It’s vaguely uncomfortable, especially since he can make out open, raw emotions swirling in the other’s eyes, but he can’t identify them-isn’t sure that he wants to.

It hadn’t been a mistake, far from it; they’d clicked instantly, with a chemistry that had left him wanting more since that first, sloppy kiss. The sex had been great, too, he couldn’t lie about that. It was just that it’d been a one night stand; he’d never actually planned on seeing Bard again, even if he’d felt a novel pang of guilt at the prospect of leaving him come morning.

Thranduil never considered it to be a mistake, but the thought that Bard might believe otherwise bothers him more than he would like to think.

“Tauriel,” he greets her, perhaps a bit colder than she would like, though he’s certain she deserves it. Especially for luring him here without any explanation as to her ulterior motives. “Bard.”

“Thranduil,” he murmurs, and Thranduil thinks that perhaps he might be in quite some trouble-his name has absolutely no business flowing off Bard’s tongue sounding like that, temptation and sin and sex. His name has been uttered with extreme variations in tone and emotion, and yet none of them quite reach this.

“You called me here, why?” This, to Tauriel, spearing her with a glance and arch of an eyebrow. He drums his finger on the wooden tabletop, warm and worn.

“Bard’s been moping, you’ve been different. I’m operating under the assumption that your change occurred because of the two of you hooking up,” she replies evenly, taking a sip of her drink, the steam puffing in a miniature cloud, briefly obscuring her face.

“I’m not moping,” Bard cuts in, indignant yet weary, his voice showing that he’s born this argument far too many times already. Good. Thranduil wouldn’t want him to think that it was anything more than a single night of amazing sex.

“Good. It was just sex,” he states calmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I’m quite aware, thank you,” Bard replies, flint and ice edging into his words. Thranduil can’t help but feel as if he’s made a misstep somewhere, though he can’t tell where and has no idea of how to remedy it.

“I don’t normally do this,” he offers into the brief silence that ensues. It’s almost an apology, though Bard gives no indication that he takes it as such. “And I certainly don’t need a chaperone to do so.”

“Someone needs to make sure that nobody gets punched in the face,” Tauriel says, all too cheerful.

“I have literally never punched anyone before,” Thranduil grumbles, even though he knows that it’s not quite true. At least, he hasn’t done so while entirely sober.

“I wasn’t referring to you, Thranduil,” she smirks, casting her eyes at Bard, who’s looking at the table with a rather sheepish expression on his face. “Bard’s usually rather even-tempered, until you _really_ rile him up. Then, shit gets violent.”

“It was one time, Tauriel. _One_ time,” he groans out, running a hand through his muss of brown hair. Thranduil isn’t sure if he ever got to run his fingers through it, twine it around his hand and tug sharply, just so he could nibble at the other’s defined jaw. He’s starting to think that he would take the opportunity to do so, again.

“And I’m here to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” is all she tells him in response, before falling silent, looking between then expectantly.

“Like I said, I don’t do this. Sex is sex is sex, it was a one-night stand, that’s all.” He’s not sure if he’s repeating it to remind Bard, or himself.

“So you’ve said,” he replies wryly, breaking off a piece of scone and popping it into his mouth, deft fingers perfectly capable of stretching him just so lingering on his lips for just a moment too long. “And so I’ve gathered.”

“Then, what more is there to say?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Bard shrugs, yet Thranduil can tell that he wanted more out of this conversation, something Thranduil cannot provide.

“You two,” Tauriel breaks in with an exasperated sigh, “are absolutely hopeless. How about I ask the questions, and you try to bumble through answering them? I cannot believe I pushed my date with Kee back for this bullshit.”

“It’s not like either of us asked you to,” Bard mumbles, shooting her a half-hearted glare.

“Right, then. Why were you at the party in the first place?” Tauriel turns to Thranduil, ignoring Bard completely. Thranduil swallows, not entirely sure how to explain it. Roaring drunk already and looking for a good time? Trying to get away from the fact that his father-

He was doing so well, too, not thinking about it. He glances down at his hands to find them shaking ever so slightly, even though his long fingers are curled into fists. All he wants to do is forget, now that he’s reminded himself again.

“I was drunk when I got your text, thought I would finally check it out,” he responds, shutting his eyes briefly, swallowing around the bile that rises in his throat, the sour constriction of grief in his chest.

“Uh huh,” she cocks an eyebrow, clearly dissatisfied and nowhere near buying his excuse. It’s not far from the truth, not entirely. “We’ll get back to that later, then.”

“Or, we won’t,” he suggests, catching her gaze and silently willing her to just let it go. This, if anything.

“Or we won’t,” she echoes, though the glint of curiosity is still there. She’ll worm it out of him later, this he knows, but it’s not something he cares to discuss in front of a man who, despite an intimate knowledge of his body, is a complete stranger.

“That resolved nothing,” Bard furrows his brow, his glance darting between the two of them, trying to read the unfamiliar dynamic. Thranduil is glad he can’t, the air is tense between him and Tauriel, who already looks like she’s starting to put two and two together.

“It resolved everything,” Tauriel stands up, draining her mug and letting it clatter to the table. She’s figured it out, then, he thinks, resigned yet slightly relieved. She won’t patronize him, won’t pamper him, and maybe that’s the sort of comfort he needs. “Thranduil, when you’re done here, we’ll talk. Bard, just text me whenever.”

And with that, she is gone, a cheery wave to the cashier, who blushes in her wake. Her last words are clearly commands, though the discomfited silence she leaves behind her settles over them quickly, a blanket over jagged rocks.

“That was,” Bard pauses, fishing for the right word.

“Odd?” Thranduil supplies, the ghost of a grin on his face. He takes to staring intently at Bard, mapping the longer scruff darkening his chin and jaw, losing the memory in the intricacies of the other’s face.

“Certainly one word to describe it,” he nods thoughtfully, eating another scone almost delicately. He’s noticed the staring, but doesn’t comment on it, keeping his eyes locked on Thranduil’s. “I wasn’t really moping over you-God, that’s so pathetic. It just threw me for a bit, being the one left on the bed like a used whore.”

“Usually the one doing the leaving, then?” Thranduil feels infinitely more comfortable with that explanation-there’s no attachment there, then, though that does nothing to dissuade the tiny bud of _something_ getting ready to blossom in his chest. It’s too soon for him to feel anything at all-and a small, niggling part of him whispers that he doesn’t deserve to feel anything, that he should remain wallowing in the blackness of despair and loss.

“You could say that. Normally, they stay ‘til morning, I make them breakfast, then we part ways as friends,” Bard shrugs, his eyes darting to the table. “Least I could do is feed them. I’ve been told that my omelets almost make up for the soreness. It’s just the way I do things.”

“It’s not how I do things,” Thranduil bites out, bitter regret flooding him unbidden. There’s something oddly endearing about that habit, even though Thranduil knows that he’d never do it himself. How inconvenient, he thinks absently, because he can see himself staying during the morning, see Bard clad in only an apron but perhaps nothing at all, cooking him some eggs, giving him a quick smile as he’s bundled out the door and back to reality.

“Apparently not,” Bard sighs, and offers no more than that. Once more, that expectation that Thranduil cannot read, though he welcomes the distraction of trying to.

“You could make me eggs now,” he says, a smirk working its way onto his face. He’s almost certain that this is not the way to go about things, and can’t quite bring himself to care. He’s been almost lost, stumbling through lust-filled evenings in a blur of alcohol, nothing filling the emptiness inside him. And yet, despite Tauriel’s interrogation and the awkwardness that’s rife between them, he feels more normal with Bard than he has in the past month and a half.

“Fuck the eggs,” Bard rumbles, reaching forward to grab his chin roughly, tugging him down for a kiss.

Fuck the eggs, indeed.


End file.
